Graf Paper
03-28-08, 06:38 PM
Aboard U-47, Poseidon's Wrath, somewhere north-northeast of Ireland in the North Atlantic...
21 December, 1940
Some patrols last longer than others. When I say this I am not speaking of the simple count of time we have imposed upon nature with our mechanical conceits. I speak of the ephemeral measure of moments ruled by a man's mercurial moods.
Clocks are everywhere on this u-boat, each one of them constantly synchronized with our master timepiece here in the zentrale. Its heartbeat is the rhythm of life on board. We eat, sleep, do our duties, all by its schedule. Yet, the master clock is at odds with the crew, their restlessness exaggerated by its insistent ticks. I sit here now as I write in my personal log, listening to the jeweled movement of our taskmaster, knowing each moment it discretely parses is a moment that compounds my own fugue.
Will those yet to come someday read this and understand that, despite the dramatic conflagrations that can change a world in mere seconds, it is the wearing monotony of dull routine that grinds and shapes a man's character as surely and relentlessly as a glacier sculpts a mountain?
Anyone can have the strength to be bold for the handful of breaths it takes to decide fate in the upheaval of sudden change that comes with events such as battle. I have far more admiration for the quiet strength of those who lead pedestrian lives, always rising each day to the same tasks with the same expectations, always bearing the bland sameness of work and comforts of home every passing season, but remaining unbowed and high of spirit through the march of years.
Some would call such people dull or mere peasantry. I say they are the truly strong, the milkman making his rounds, the shopkeeper in his store, the farmer tending his fields. They are bedrock upon which a nation is built and would crumble to ash without them. Warriors and poets may change the world but their unquiet hearts cannot sustain the worlds they make.
I grew up as a fisherman's son in Hamburg and the salt of the deep runs in my veins. Much of the man I am now was instilled into me by the ordinary heroism of the man my father was, providing and caring for his family. He loved the sea and I know it was a proud day for him when I reached the age to stumble aboard for the first time and begin my inheritance that has been a part of my family for generations. The wind dashing the briny spray over you as the bow broke the waves, the drumming pop of the billowing sail, the taut hum of the rigging, and the rolling heave of the deck were the rhythm of life then.
Papa was called to service by the old Kaiser. On the day he left for war, the one image that stands foremost in my mind is how he stood beside his humble ketch laying tied up at the dock. He lay a wistful hand upon its weatherbeaten hull and ran his fingers along the fading paint in a gentle caress of farewell. His last words to me as he turned away was, "Take good care of her, mein kleine seemann! 'Wohlstand' is yours now so keep her brass polished and the barnacles scraped. How a man cares for his boat says much about him. Honor her and she will always do her best to keep you well. Remember this in all things in life, ja?"
That old boat was my vater in many ways. I wonder what my papa would think of me now, sailing closed up in a metal drum that sweats and stinks with the exertions of 51 men and the machines that keep us alive and fighting? Surely it is more worthy of praise to win a fish that feeds your family than to win a battle that shatters families.
Perhaps Weihnachtsmann, Saint Nicholas, will bring us the gift of an end to the tedium endured by my crew. Not a ship sighted yet and this quiet has everyone wondering what the Tommies are up to now.
21 December, 1940
Some patrols last longer than others. When I say this I am not speaking of the simple count of time we have imposed upon nature with our mechanical conceits. I speak of the ephemeral measure of moments ruled by a man's mercurial moods.
Clocks are everywhere on this u-boat, each one of them constantly synchronized with our master timepiece here in the zentrale. Its heartbeat is the rhythm of life on board. We eat, sleep, do our duties, all by its schedule. Yet, the master clock is at odds with the crew, their restlessness exaggerated by its insistent ticks. I sit here now as I write in my personal log, listening to the jeweled movement of our taskmaster, knowing each moment it discretely parses is a moment that compounds my own fugue.
Will those yet to come someday read this and understand that, despite the dramatic conflagrations that can change a world in mere seconds, it is the wearing monotony of dull routine that grinds and shapes a man's character as surely and relentlessly as a glacier sculpts a mountain?
Anyone can have the strength to be bold for the handful of breaths it takes to decide fate in the upheaval of sudden change that comes with events such as battle. I have far more admiration for the quiet strength of those who lead pedestrian lives, always rising each day to the same tasks with the same expectations, always bearing the bland sameness of work and comforts of home every passing season, but remaining unbowed and high of spirit through the march of years.
Some would call such people dull or mere peasantry. I say they are the truly strong, the milkman making his rounds, the shopkeeper in his store, the farmer tending his fields. They are bedrock upon which a nation is built and would crumble to ash without them. Warriors and poets may change the world but their unquiet hearts cannot sustain the worlds they make.
I grew up as a fisherman's son in Hamburg and the salt of the deep runs in my veins. Much of the man I am now was instilled into me by the ordinary heroism of the man my father was, providing and caring for his family. He loved the sea and I know it was a proud day for him when I reached the age to stumble aboard for the first time and begin my inheritance that has been a part of my family for generations. The wind dashing the briny spray over you as the bow broke the waves, the drumming pop of the billowing sail, the taut hum of the rigging, and the rolling heave of the deck were the rhythm of life then.
Papa was called to service by the old Kaiser. On the day he left for war, the one image that stands foremost in my mind is how he stood beside his humble ketch laying tied up at the dock. He lay a wistful hand upon its weatherbeaten hull and ran his fingers along the fading paint in a gentle caress of farewell. His last words to me as he turned away was, "Take good care of her, mein kleine seemann! 'Wohlstand' is yours now so keep her brass polished and the barnacles scraped. How a man cares for his boat says much about him. Honor her and she will always do her best to keep you well. Remember this in all things in life, ja?"
That old boat was my vater in many ways. I wonder what my papa would think of me now, sailing closed up in a metal drum that sweats and stinks with the exertions of 51 men and the machines that keep us alive and fighting? Surely it is more worthy of praise to win a fish that feeds your family than to win a battle that shatters families.
Perhaps Weihnachtsmann, Saint Nicholas, will bring us the gift of an end to the tedium endured by my crew. Not a ship sighted yet and this quiet has everyone wondering what the Tommies are up to now.